


Nouvelles de la Rose

by mautadite



Category: Mystère à la Tour Eiffel (2015)
Genre: F/F, First Time, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: Louise has nightmares now, but that’s not all she has.





	Nouvelles de la Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattahj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattahj/gifts).



> _“Reviens de me donner des nouvelles de ma rose.” / “Come back, to let me know how my rose is doing.”_
> 
> Happy Yuletide, dear recip! :)

Louise has nightmares now. They begin almost as soon as her head touches the pillow; they are so matter-of-fact in her life now that she goes to sleep expecting them and wakes up fleeing them. Sometimes the spectres swimming in her head take the form of Murat, other times Valère. On other occasions the ghastly bodies of her father and Jussac chase her, blood painting their lips and clothes, cold accusation burning in their eyes.

Most often though, the monster in her nightmares is herself.

As a child, she slept like the dead and never had bad dreams; Papa used to joke about how lucky they both were on that account. He’s not here to comfort her now, and never will be again. Perhaps he never would have; he was always awkward and brusque and clumsy when he tried to show affection. It was why Louise had grown up the way she did; headstrong, independent, always willing to barrel face-first into a mystery, brave in ways both her ex-husband and father would have named stupid. The Louise of a few months ago would not have looked for comfort after her nightmares; she would not have expected it.

Today’s Louise wakes up with the rumble of the carriage, her head jerking abruptly off of Henriette’s shoulder. Almost immediately, there’s a hand cupping her neck, drawing her head back down. Louise submits willingly, resting her cheek against the dark swell of Henriette’s bosom. Her cheeks go warm and her heart races, but without the remnants of the pounding fear of the nightmare.

“Bad dream?” Henriette asks. Her fingers stroke down Louise’s neck; ladybug touches.

“Yes,” Louise says.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head. They’re already as close as can be, and every jerk and hop of the wheels on the cobbled stones pushes them closer still; skin recognising skin. Louise is only tangentially aware of the world flying past beyond the carriage window. That blurry world of cloud-grey buildings and emerald fields encroaches upon the whispery tendrils of the dream still clinging to her mind, and Henriette eclipses them both.

“No.” She huddles closer to Henriette, arms around her waist. “Not now.”

“Okay.” She feels lips at her forehead, warm to the touch. “You don’t have to. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

*

They arrive in Le Havre with the dawn. The scent of the sea drapes over the city like a woman’s négligée; light and artful. They can see the ships in the harbour from miles away, and smoke rises from the cityscape with great industry, puffing its way into the next century like the rest of the world. 

Louise has never been to this corner of the northwest. Henriette has had occasion to before, on tours with Valère, and knows the town well. There is a ship waiting for her at the docks; a ship where she has booked a room to spend the long weeks of the voyage to America. Henriette does not think, she explains to Louise aboard the carriage, with a hint of that shyness that Louise is always amazed to remember that she possesses, that she will be aboard that ship when it leaves.

“I have some business to see to in the city,” she says, looking down at her hands, and then up at Louise through thick dark lashes. “It should take me a few days, maybe less. But afterwards… I was thinking that I would return to Paris.”

There’s no question in it, but she sounds unsure nonetheless, her dark eyes searching out Louise’s own. A riot of butterflies erupts in Louise’s chest; it’s enough to make her float. She knows then that she would have gladly boarded that ship with Henriette had she asked; sailed right out of France and into whatever life they could have built in the western continents. But she thinks of Paris: her father’s grave and his troubled memory, her gallery, Dr. Levasseur and his promised aide; all within the shadow of the Tower. She could have left it all behind in a heartbeat, all the mystery and all the pain, but to do so is not her way. She thinks of healing in Paris, thinks of Henriette as a fixture in that life, and her happiness in this moment is so complete she’s halfway delirious with it. 

She grips Henriette’s hand.

“With me. Return with me, you must know I’d gladly have you, I…” She breaks off, cheeks burning. “That is… I don’t mean to presume…”

Henriette grins. It shows her front teeth prominently, in a charming way that belong in a picture book or the page of a sketch pad. Even if Louise had not been attracted to her from the first, she would have still wanted to draw her. Henriette’s beauty is the kind that stops the heart in its tracks; even more so when she smiles like that.

“With you, there could be no presumption.” Their hands are still locked together. Henriette brings Louise’s to her lips, kissing it softly. “I feel like you know me better than most.”

The carriage has slowed to a trotting crawl, and the world around them slows with it. Words cavort senselessly in Louise’s throat; none emerging, she abandons them all to return the gesture. Henriette’s hand is so soft and wonderful it feels like a kiss in and of itself; Louise presses it to her cheek before bringing it to her mouth. This moment is pure magic; to attempt to put it into words, she feels, would merely be distraction.

*

Le Havre opens its arms to them. 

They stroll arm in arm down busy streets, chasing one errand after another. The carriage is engaged for the day, but Henriette insists that they do all the business they can on their own walking amidst sweaty dock workers, harried lawyers and business-like housewives.

“There is a saying,” Henriette confides, leaning closer, “that goes something like this: You can only get to truly know a woman when she’s on her back, and you can only get to truly know a city when you’re on your feet.”

Louise tries to stop her giggle with her hand; it metamorphoses most unfortunately into a snort. Her ex-husband would have chided her; Henriette looks fit to split with delight.

“Oh really?” she says, face red but her grin firmly locked in place. “Where did you hear that?”

“A bar somewhere,” Henriette says with calculated cavalierism, a twinkle in her eyes. “The first bit is probably rubbish, but the second bit I can vouch for personally. You’ll see.”

She does. Louise finds herself beaming uncontrollably as they navigate the streets, sometimes with arms interlocked, sometimes holding hands. She feels like a spy, hidden in plain sight amidst the clueless masses, with all her secrets pinned on her breast in a code too complicated for anyone to decipher. Every time Henriette rubs her knuckles, or bumps her hips, or accidentally brushes the side of her breast with an arm, she feels as uncontrollably happy and bold as she did kissing her outside the carriage in Paris, in plain view of anyone who cared to look their way. It’s a reckless brand of happiness, with no conditions or borders or caveats.

First, they pay a visit to a friend of Henriette’s in a shop of curiosities. Louise spends a good half an hour browsing shelves of fabricated body parts, trinkets from the far east, all sorts of gadgets and mechanisms. Then they’re off to another shop of antiquities, where Henriette haggles most fearsomely for the sale of some of her props. The rule of magic applies here as well: diversion. Henriette pretends to mull over competing offers, chewed lip, wringing hands and all, and soon the shopkeeper is practically begging to take the items off her hands. They giggle over it later while they buy mille-feuilles from a nearby patisserie, and eat them with their fingers while walking down the streets.

Next come the docks; Henriette finds one of her contacts to send a note to the _Gallia_ telling them not to expect her. Louise waits in the door of the tavern, inundated with the smells of sea water and cheap liquor, while Henriette speaks to a bright-eyed teen, and presses a few coins into his hand. She’s as direct as she always is, giving her instructions with clarity and pausing to make sure that the boy understands. Her hat has long been abandoned, stuffed into her purse, and tendrils of her hair hang loose about her face. The effect reminds Louise of a partially drawn curtain, slowly closing at the end of a performance while the audience cries out for an encore.

“I drew you,” she says when Henriette approaches her at the door. She presses a finger to her lips; she hadn’t known that she was going to speak, or that those would be the words. Henriette looks intrigued, and she feels obligated to continue. “From memory, because I thought… I _think_ about you so much, but I also drew you while you were sleeping, that night at my house.” There’s a fire blazing in her cheeks. “I thought you should know.”

Henriette leans against the doorway, smiling. 

“I’ve seen your art; you’re very talented.” She twirls a lock of her hair around a finger. “I’ve never been drawn before, I don’t think. I’d love to see how it turned out.”

Louise’s blush deepens.

“I suspect you’ll get your chance. One of my pieces of you…” She falters, playing with her own fingers. “My favourite, in fact, it’s… it’s on display at the gallery. One might even say in a place of honour.”

A smile curls around Henriette’s full lips like a bend in the road. She looks thoughtful.

“Once again leading an exhibition, ein? Even if I’m not there in the flesh. I’m a greater performer than I knew.”

Louise’s heart sinks, but before she can apologise, Henriette is laughing it away and linking their arms.

“No, no, I don’t mind. I look forward to seeing it when we get back.”

Louise tries to take her word for it and smiles, falling into step with her. They’re a few blocks away before Henriette speaks up again. Her voice is quieter than before, but still with that same thoughtful bent.

“You know, Louise… Valère and Murat made me do things, many things… some of them I’m sure I’ll never remember.” Her features hold a diluted shade of emotions Louise knows quite well: anger, shame and rue. “But as your doctor said, the subconscious is a powerful thing. Obviously they knew how to manipulate it, but not completely.” She shakes her head, tries to start, and has to pause for a breath before she begins again. “What I’m trying to say is this: that night at your house, I went to sleep thinking of you, too.”

The feeling grows like a rose, and Louise’s heart is its joyous, willing root. Time and again she’s wondered at how arbitrary it is; if not for Murat’s machinations and his plot for revenge, she might have never come into contact with this beautiful, brave, amazing woman who befriended her so quickly and made her heart beat so fast.

Maybe that is another rule of magic. Every action has an outcome, and not all are as you expect.

She tugs Henriette closer to her. If she is to learn more about magic, she is accompanied as best as she can be. The rest of Le Havre lies at their feet.

*

Late that evening, they stumble into Henriette’s hotel room kissing. Louise hears a giggle behind them; another one of Henriette’s numerous friends in this city, this time the one who had met them at the door and tipped them an enormous wink. Henriette kicks the door closed with her boot, and that is the last Louise thinks of the giggling woman for a long time.

Many things are the same. They kiss for a long time, ages, an eternity; the minutes distended to hours by the reckoning of desire. Louise cups Henriette’s face in her hands like she would water from a sparkling lake, wanting to take in every drop of her before she slips away. Her body feels taut, like string stretched over the world’s longest violin, and every time Henriette’s hands roam over her body she quivers, excitement mounting. 

Henriette leads her over to the bed, and they sink into it, lips never once separating. Every time Louise even thinks about breaking away, Henriette will stroke her hair, or cup her backside, or caress her breast through her clothes, and the thought of moving even an inch away from her becomes like poison. Every part of her aches to be closer. 

Piece by piece, they struggle out of their clothes. A scarf tossed here, a jacket thrown there. Louise has never been more aware of how many _buttons_ there are on a woman’s dress, or how many laces there are to undo on undergarments. They spend forever on Henriette’s corset, and all the while Louise composes a treatise for the redesign of women’s clothing in her mind. And then Henriette kisses her deep, licking their tongues together softly, and Louise forgets her own name.

This time, she sets her mind on her goal, and she doesn’t stop pulling away bits of clothing until Henriette’s body is completely bare. Louise’s mouth is a desert; she finds that she can’t swallow. She knows what the human body looks like; she’s drawn women in states of undress before. As a teenager she’d perused those little back-alley novelettes, purchasable for a franc or two, and if her eyes lingered over the images of the women in order to better recreate them in her sketchbook later, that was a secret for her and her innermost mind.

The sight of Henriette, completely nude, reclining against the pillows with one long, deep dark thigh casually thrown aside inflames her more than a hundred of those novels or a hundred of those pictures. Louise sighs in hunger and desire. She reaches for a perfectly rounded breast, and it fits in her palm as if it were meant to. Henriette’s eyes go darker, and the feel of her nipple hardening and pressing into the cup of her hand is the most wonderful thing in the world to Louise. The apex of her drawers has quickened to wetness, and there, as she hovers over her soon-to-be lover with a hand on her breast and one creeping between her thighs, Henriette says the words that Louise thinks:

“You are so beautiful.”

Louise’s throat goes dry again, and all she can think to do is kiss Henriette again, try to share this delicious feeling. She dips her hands between Henriette’s legs, through her curls, and finds her just as wet as she is. Henriette takes her by the hands, shows her where to touch and press, spreads her legs to take two fingers easily, rolls her hips and calls out Louise’s name sweetly. Louise moves by instinct and instruction, pressing kisses to Henriette’s neck and ample chest, caressing her nipples with lips and tongue. She falls in love slowly, with every moan and gasp wrenched from those lovely lips, until she feels like she can’t remember a time when Henriette wasn’t her everything.

After she reaches her climax, Henriette pushes Louise to the bed, strips off her clothes, and puts her mouth between her legs in a deep, slow, intimate kiss. Louise cries out, almost coming off the bed. Her nipples are aching, her skin is all gooseflesh, and she’s panting like a workhouse drudge. Then Henriette puts her clever fingers to work as well, and Louise dies sweetly a million times.

 _There is magic in this too_ , she thinks, cupping Henriette by the face to kiss her deeply. And this time, there is no illusion.

*

Henriette takes Louise’s hair down, unbraids it, and as they lie together, she strokes her fingers through the mass. Louise sighs contently. Her clitoris tingles still and every part of her body is singing.

“Are you sure you don’t mind if we stay for a few more days?” Henriette asks.

Louise shakes her head. “I left in a bit of a hurry but Paris will keep while I’m away.” She kisses Henriette’s nearest breast three times; on the side, the under-swell, and at the point of a dark nipple. “I don’t want to be anywhere but where you are right now.”

Henriette’s entire face eases into a smile. 

“Me too.”

The curtains are drawn, but they are thin enough to see that night has completely fallen. They’re close enough to the port that the smells and sounds of the sea still permeate the hotel. No luxury abode for them; the walls are cracked and dirty, their sheets are serviceable but by no means comfortable, and the only additions to the décor are a flickering lamp and a blurry, raunchy photograph of two women. This is still the happiest that Louise has ever been. 

She looks up at Henriette. As always, she’s impressed by a vague sense of wonder that Henriette _knows_ so much; about the world of women like them, about bars where one can go and kiss a girl and no one will try to commit you, about hotels like this with pictures of an ilk to inspire a Greek poetess. She seems so sure, and evidently, she’s sure about Louise too. _More than just one night_ , she’d said she wanted, back in Valère’s warehouse. Louise is ready to give that to her. All the nights she could ever possibly want.

She opens her mouth, and as has been happening of late, what comes out is not exactly as she had planned.

“Henriette, do _you_ ever get nightmares?”

She turns the questions over after she’s spoken it, and realises that she really does want to know. Why it didn’t occur to her to ask until now escapes her.

Henriette looks down at her, kisses her forehead, and then nods. Much the answer that Louise would have expected. Men like Murat are ultimately forgettable but the damage they do lingers. She strokes the side of her lover’s face; an apology, or comfort, or both.

“Do you want to talk about them?”

In response, Henriette wriggles lower down on the bed, so that they can hold each other closer in their arms. Louise does so gladly, taking brief kisses one after another, like fortifying sips of wine. Henriette cups her by the chin.

“Not yet,” she says when they pull away, and Louise nods. She understands, is more equipped to understand than anyone else. 

“Of course. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready. And if you’re never ready, I’ll still be here. With me, you don’t need to justify yourself.”

Henriette smiles broadly. Louise wagers she rather approves of her taking Henriette’s own words, using them to comfort her. A bit of thievery, careful placement, and a smile; it smacks of a magician’s trick.

They drift in and out of sleep, stroking each other’s hair, basking in the feeling of lazy contentment. Sleep drags at Louise’s eyes like the sun droops in the sky, but she isn’t thinking about the nightmares that are soon to come. Her thoughts, her eyes, her hands; they are all on Henriette.

“Do you still have the rose?” Henriette asks suddenly.

“Of course.” Louise laughs. “I plucked all the petals, pressed them into a book for safekeeping. The stem and all.” She smiles at Henriette, sees her lips already splitting for one of her own. “And I came back to tell you how it’s doing.”

“I feel like a very lucky woman. What if I wanted to see it as well?”

Louise is already miles ahead of her, thinking about the petals pressed to her favourite sketch of Henriette, lending their perfume and their colour and yet still seeming drab and pale in comparison to their original owner. She kisses Henriette’s sweet lips.

“Have no fear. It took root in Paris, and we’ll be there soon again.”


End file.
